


Sterek Secret Santa Drabbles

by tempe_harding



Category: Hockey RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bands, Drabbles, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Gift Fic, Hockey, M/M, Magic, Now With Even More Hockey!, Punk, Sterek Secret Santa, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempe_harding/pseuds/tempe_harding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three drabbles that were gifted to hannah_baker during the 2013 Sterek Secret Santa on tumblr. And one longer fic gifted during the 2014 Sterek Secret Santa!</p><p>1) Hockey!Sterek<br/>2) Punk Band!Sterek<br/>3) Emissary!Sterek<br/>4) Hockey!Sterek, from the POV of Jonathan Toews</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter Classic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannah_baker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_baker/gifts).



> Hockey. The werewolves aren’t werewolves, but Canadians (except for Isaac. He’s Russian.) (FYI, this one started out really serious—it was set during the biggest outdoor hockey game of the year, the Winter Classic, and the internet speculation about women playing became reality and Allison was on the team and Stiles was in a slump and… then it devolved… a lot. OC, and maybe OOC too. Sorry.)

Lina Hale is _absolutely_ **certain** that her cousin, Derek, is in love with his teammate, first line right wing, Stiles Stilinski.  (Although, who wouldn’t be?  Stiles is soo dreamy, _and_ he has the best hands in the NHL.  Lina has her very own _signed_ #24 BH Weres jersey.)

 

Lina is fourteen.  She knows complete, undying love when she sees it.

 

\--

 

Hockey is basically the greatest sport in the world. 

 

And Lina is in no way biased from growing up in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada, where players the likes of Patrick Sharp (dreamy sigh) and all four Staal brothers grew up.

 

And she’s still not biased by the way her father, Peter, took over as General Manager of the Beacon Hills Weres when she was twelve.  (It’s just been the best two years of her life because California is awesome.)

 

(Hockey is just the best, okay?  And the BH Weres are the best hockey team, alright?  I mean, seriously, with her cousin Derek as Captain, how can they go wrong?  And center Scott McCall lights it up with his left and right wingers, Isaac Lahey and Stiles Stilinski, basically making up the best line in the NHL.  This is just common knowledge.)

 

\--

 

The internet agrees with Lina.  Derek is totally in love with Stiles.

 

I mean, it’s so obvious.  The girls on Tumblr have it all figured out.  Their timeline of Sterek’s (isn’t that an awesome name?) relationship is flawless.

 

If Lina didn’t like, _know_ for **absolute** certain that Derek and Stiles weren’t together, she would totally believe it.

 

\--

 

Sometimes Lina gets the feeling that Stiles and Derek don’t know they’re in love.

 

Call her crazy, but she has a sneaking suspicion.

 

Something in the way Derek looks at Stiles at team dinners and morning skates—kind of wistful, but resigned at the same time.  In the way that Stiles practically gushes over Derek’s many achievements (two Olympic gold medals for Canada in hockey, a gold medal from Worlds two years ago, the list goes on) but gets defensive when reporters ask about his personal life or about “Sterek.”  In the way that Derek gets serious with Paige (before their epic breakup and her moving out and across the country) and how Stiles dates Heather (who is a perfectly nice girl, Lina guesses, but completely wrong for him.)

 

It makes Lina sad.  Her cousin’s relationship should be cuddles and kisses and Stanley Cups!

 

They should be just as happy for themselves as Lina is for them!

 

So she plots.

 

\--

 

So it’s been like, two weeks, and Lina’s plan is basically an epic failure.  Playing her father’s (rather large) collection of Barry Manilow when Stiles is over fails to set the mood (Derek fails at everything but hockey and has yet to move out), and since Peter doesn’t believe in secrets (when he’s not keeping them), there are no rooms with locked doors for Derek and Stiles to be trapped in.

 

Things are looking bleak.

 

\--

 

It’s January 1st and Lina knows what that means: The Winter Classic.  The entire BH Were organization, and all of their family, it seems like, descends upon Lina’s house for a _huge_ watch party.  Even Coach Finstock and the crazy goalie Greenberg.  (Lina ships it.)

 

Anyway, there’s a huge projector screen out back where most of the players and their families are watching and snacking, under the careful direction of Peter.  Stiles, Scott, Isaac, Derek, and Lina, however, are inside.  Stiles and Derek are sitting in the loveseat (sigh) while Lina is squished between Scott and Isaac on the couch. 

 

Now, any other time Lina would be totally into the game—yelling and getting all up in the TV’s business, but she’s in the throes of despair, okay?  Her cousin is never going to know real happiness!  (Plus the Red Wings are playing.  Lina hates the Red Wings.)

 

The second period ends and Isaac and Scott get up to go get food during the intermission.  Derek and Stiles stay where they are, watching the intermission report silently.  (Don Cherry is looking especially fabulous in a suit patterned with pink roses.)

 

Lina lounges against the couch cushions, bored out of her mind.  She spots something out of the corner of her eye, however, and it’s like lightning just shot down her spine.  Sitting on the side table, no longer blocked by Scott McCall’s big head and uneven jaw is a sprig of mistletoe. 

 

Dude.

 

The maid must have forgotten it when she took down all the Christmas decorations a few days ago.  It’s perfect.

 

Lina glances over at Stiles and Derek.  They aren’t paying her any attention.  _So stealth_ , Lina reaches out and grabs the mistletoe as she stands, making like she’s going into the kitchen.  She slips behind the loveseat and holds the sprig above their heads.

 

“Ha!” Lina proclaims, “Now you have to kiss!”

 

Derek and Stiles both startle, glancing at Lina before following her arm to the mistletoe above their heads.  “Um…” Stiles murmurs.

 

“You have to.  It’s tradition,” says Lina firmly.

 

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but that’s when Derek strikes.  It’s a perfect first kiss, slow and sweet.

 

Things get a little, um… heated after that.  Lina feels so awkward standing there while her cousin and her idol make out that she actually blushes and rushes outside.

 

Whatever.

 

Wait til the girls hear about this.  Lina’s gonna be so Tumblr famous.


	2. Fool's Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken some creative liberties with some real things. The song used is “Fool’s Holiday” by All Time Low, which appears on Punk Goes Christmas, which was actually released on November 2, 2013 by Fearless Records.
> 
> Also, trigger warnings? Past drug/alcohol addiction. Post-acute-withdrawal syndrome. Brief mention of panic attacks. Trickery (dub-con?) of taking someone to the doctor without telling them beforehand (though it’s to get them help.) I think that’s it.

“ _‘Write a Christmas song, Stilinski,’_ ” Stiles murmurs mockingly, fingers plucking at the guitar strings.  “ _‘Make it happy.  You have five days.’_ Fuck.”  The guitar lands with a soft thump on the bed as Stiles knuckles his eyes.  He feels like shit.  He’s 43 days clean and sober and it sucks.  Post-acute-withdrawal syndrome has set in nicely—he hasn’t slept in over two days, his panic attacks are back (joy), and he’s itching for a cigarette.  But apparently (or so Scott says) going cold turkey means _cold turkey_.  (And this time he really means it.)

 

What’s there to feel festive about?  Stiles hasn’t spoken to his father in months.  His band is on hiatus while he gets his shit together.  And unless Scott gets Allison to soften up, Stiles is spending the holidays alone.

 

Merry fucking Christmas.

 

Shit, man.  Stiles doesn’t even remember last year’s Christmas, he was so fucked up.  And the year before that he… he spent Christmas with Derek.

 

Stiles grabs his phone and hits speed dial 4, the band’s manager.  “Hey, Finstock.  How happy does this Christmas song have to be?”

 

\--

 

_I know I've been a real bad guy_ _/ My name's made the list more than a few times /_  
You could light up a candle for every mistake that I've made /  
And I'd follow them home with you / On a pity parade  
  


\--

 

(Two Years Ago)

 

“Come on, Derek!  It’s starting!”  Stiles leaps over the back of the couch, holding the popcorn bowl aloft as he settles against the pillows.  Derek follows at a more sedate pace, but his eyebrows are smiling.  Stiles can tell. 

 

Stiles moves in for some Christmas Cuddling while Derek messes with the volume of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_.  Derek smells the same—that weird incense he lets Isaac burn at the record shop, Boston Crème guitar polish, his aftershave, _Derek_.  Stiles hadn’t realized just how much he would miss him while on tour.  Seeing Derek has totally been worth all the finagling he had to do to get home for Christmas.

 

Derek’s arm comes to rest around Stiles’ shoulders, fingers trailing on his arm.  “I missed you,” Stiles feels more than hears Derek’s words.  He smiles and moves closer.

 

“I missed you too.”

 

\--

 

Thinking about Derek makes Stiles’ heart hurt, but he does manage to bang out a verse for the song.  Finstock better appreciate this shit.  And _Punk Goes Christmas_ better be the best in the series.  (Seriously.  There are thirteen other compilation albums in the _Punk Goes…_ series.)

 

Scott shows up and lets himself in just as Stiles has figured out the melody.  Which is strange, because the last time Scott was here (…more than three days ago but less than a week, Stiles is pretty sure) he was _stealing_ the vodka Stiles had given in and bought (but didn’t get to enjoy, because _Twitter._   Blegh.  So maybe some fan recognized him at the liquor store and tattled to his bandmates, because they are _worried about him_.  Whatever.)  (Okay.  Their fans are awesome.)

 

“Hey, dude,” Stiles mumbles around the pen in his mouth.  “I’ve been working on that song for the _Punk Goes Christmas_ album.”

 

“That’s great, Stiles,” Scott smiles.  It dims slightly as he looks around the dirty living room.  Pizza boxes, Red Bull cans, and Reese’s wrappers litter the floor.  It also smells.  “When was the last time you showered, dude?” asks Scott, gingerly taking a step to turn on a lamp.  “Or slept?”  Stiles flinches at the sudden influx of light.  The dark bruises under his eyes give him away.

 

“I don’t know, it’s fine,” Stiles says quickly, clutching his guitar closer.  “I’m kind of stuck on the chorus, though I’ve got a hook.  You should take a look at this rhythm guitar part.  It’s pretty shitty.”

 

Scott takes the crumpled papers Stiles hands him.  “Uh huh, sure, man.  Um, why don’t you go take a shower while I look at these?  Then I was thinking we could go out for some lunch.  Maybe Joey’s?”

 

“Out?” Stiles repeats.  He shifts, restless.  “Uh, sure.”  After a moment, he sets down his guitar (hoping against hope that Stiles won’t notice that it’s Molly, the one Derek gave him) and walks away.

 

\--

 

_I've always lived too selfishly_ _/ Nobody's perfect, babe / But I never tried to be /_  
For every second I've poisoned and all of the minutes you spent on me /  
I'd give my whole life's worth of hours to fix what I've broke in the first place

 

\--

 

Two days later the song is mostly finished and it’s one week until Christmas.

 

Scott’s “lunch” was actually lunch-and-a-shrink.  After hamburgers at Joey’s, Scott took him to see a psychiatrist.  It basically sucked, but he did get a prescription for Carbamazepine, which stabilizes moods and helps treat post-acute-withdrawal syndrome.  Which is good.  Stiles is actually feeling better (the drug can’t have kicked in yet, so maybe it’s the placebo effect, or the shower, or the ten hours he slept last night.)

 

The doorbell rings.

 

It’s Derek.

 

Stiles is completely frozen.  Does Carbamazepine have hallucinogenic side effects?

 

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek murmurs.

 

“Hey, Derek,” says Stiles.  His heart is pounding in his chest.  It’s been what, a year and a half since he’s seen Derek, and yet he looks exactly the same.  Eyebrows, tattoos, stubble.  Stiles wants to touch him.

 

Derek shifts from foot to foot, but holds Stiles’ gaze.  “Scott called, said you were doing better.  And he said you… had something you wanted me to listen to?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, moving so Derek can come in.  “Um, I was writing a Christmas song for this compilation album, and it really came together…”

 

“I’m glad,” Derek smiles. 

 

Stiles can’t take it—he lunges forward and hugs Derek, burrowing into his leather coat.  Derek stills at first, but softens and returns the hug.  Stiles feels overwhelmed.  Derek’s scent fills his nose and his arms are holding him and he feels content for the first time in, well, about a year and a half.  “I missed you,” he murmurs.

 

“I missed you too.”

 

\--

 

_Wrap me up like a present and put me away / And when it gets cold I'll be yours /_  
Let the bells ring on a fool's holiday / I swear that I'm more than just broken promises / Decorations can change like tinsel and ribbon, so /  
Do not open til you've got forever to spend with me on a fool's holiday  
  



	3. Midwinter

The Hermit’s cottage is nothing like Derek expects.  There are no downed trees, no rank stench, no broken windows, no mold.  The cottage looks small and homely—colorful shutters and snow-covered window boxes, a smoke trail leading merrily out of the chimney.  It looks like a scene out of a Midwinter fairy tale.

 

Still, though.  Derek has reservations about this plan.  Everyone—even werewolves—knows the legends about the Hermit.  He is a crazy old man who practices Rogue Magick in the middle of the forest.  He once rode into town nude, atop a giant jackalope.  He bought out the grocer of blue-orange grapefruit preserves (the kind no one likes) because “gremlins hate blue-orange grapefruit preserves, especially mixed with crushed horseradish.”  He started a petition to change the order of the week so Wednesday replaced Saturday because “It was magically sound, obviously.”

 

Deaton is sure, however, that the Hermit will be able to help. 

 

As they approach the cottage, they seem to pass through some sort of magical barrier.  Derek and Isaac share suspicious glances, but Deaton just looks pleased.

 

The cottage door opens.  A man steps out. 

 

“Ho, Stiles,” Deaton calls.

 

The Hermit is nothing like Derek expects.  He is young, for one thing.  Young and quite good looking.  Smelling like ink and magic and chocolate.  Derek is thrown quite off balance.  It is terribly inconvenient.

 

The Hermit—Stiles?—smiles.  “Ho, Deaton.  What brings you and your companions into the forest so deep in winter?”  He steps back and gestures for them to enter the cottage.

 

“This is Derek Hale.  He is a new alpha werewolf,” Deaton explains, ushering Derek and Isaac inside.

 

“Ah,” Stiles murmurs in understanding.  His smile dims a little, but he looks straight at Derek.  “Hello.”

 

Derek can do nothing but nod.

 

“Excellent!” says Deaton.  He claps a firm hand on Isaac’s shoulder and opens the cottage door with the other.  “We will be back in three days.”  Before Derek can protest, they are gone.

 

Derek and the Her—Stiles stand in awkward silence for a moment before, surprisingly, Derek breaks it.  “When Deaton told me we were going to see the Hermit, I didn’t expect—”

 

“Me?” Stiles smiles.  “Yeah.  I am new, though.  You’re probably thinking of my grandfather, Zbigniew, and his brother, **Przemysław.**   They were the Hermit before me.  It’s an inherited position.”

 

“Really?  They both were?” Derek asks.

 

Stiles shrugs.  “They were twins.”  He looks closely at Derek.  “Do you know why Deaton brought you here?”  Derek shakes his head.  “As an alpha werewolf, your pack needs an emissary.  On the solstice, there is a special ritual that can be done to see if an emissary’s magic is compatible with yours.  Then they can become the pack’s emissary.” Stiles pauses.  “I’m just surprised Deaton brought you to me first, and not the Darach, Jennifer.  In young packs especially, the emissary can be… _close_ to the alpha.”

 

“Oh.”

 

An awkward silence fills the cottage.

 

Surprisingly, Derek breaks it.  “Have you read the works of the Sonneteer?”

 

“I have,” Stiles smiles.  He breaks out into a long ramble about how the Sonneteer basically ripped off the Versifier and how his writing was drivel.

 

Derek doesn’t smile, per say, but it feels like he could.  Which is almost as good.


	4. Goal and Assist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sterek from the POV of Captain Serious himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before the Hawks lost the Winter Classic :'(

_“That’s Derek Hale, shooting from the point, and OH!  It just goes wide of the net!  Close but no cigar!  Hale’s looking for his first goal of the season as the newest defenseman on the ‘Hawks…”_

\--

Jonny is a good captain, okay?  At least, he tries to be.  He leads by example (with a minimum of yelling), doles out positive reinforcement (high fives and butt taps are good for the soul), and takes care to make sure every guy knows where they stand (Kaner says he’s intimidating, especially to the rookies, but what does Kaner know.)  The point is, he tries.

The Chicago Blackhawks are looking good this season, early days it may be.  Lines are clicking, the points are rolling in, it’s all pucks in the back of the other teams’ nets.

Which is why Jonny’s pretty surprised when Kaner corners him during his cool down on the bikes after practice.

“You gotta talk to Decker, man.  He’s about to explode from internalized angst, or some shit, and it won’t be pretty,” Kaner says firmly, arms folded across his chest.  His hair is at a manageable length post-playoff-mullet, and Jonny is briefly distracted by how his blond curls, damp from an after-practice shower, cling to his neck.

“Wait, Derek?  Are you sure?  He seems fine to me.  It hasn’t affected his play…”

Kaner rolls his eyes.  “You are so oblivious, dude.  _I_ noticed, that’s enough.  Go talk to him and fix it.  You’ve got the C.”

And, well, Kaner’s always been big on his cultivation of the rookies (if someone two years older than you can be considered a rookie); he _does_ notice these things.  And Derek Hale—nicknamed Decker, after his first fight where he threw one good punch and then got his ass pummeled—is new to the Hawks, acquired during this summer’s free agency circus.  Jonny knows Derek spent the majority of his career on the San Jose Sharks, with a brief stint on the New York Rangers.  It can be hard adjusting to a new team, a new city, a new system of hockey.  And Derek _has_ been pretty dour and scowly the past couple of weeks, more so than usual…

Kaner may actually be right, for once, and from the smug look on his face, he knows it.

“Alright,” Jonny says.  “I’ll talk to him.”

\--

Jonny picks his time wisely.  These things need to be handled with tact.

So before they leave the ice after morning skate the next day, he asks Derek if he’ll stay behind for a few minutes.  Derek complies, looking vaguely curious but also very stoic.

After everyone else has left the ice, Jonny makes his move.

“Hey, man.  It’s been brought to my attention by a… concerned party… that something’s bothering you.  I hope you know you can always talk to me, about hockey stuff or… anything.  I don’t know how Argent captained you guys out in San Jose, but… I’m… here for you,” Jonny says.  He holds Derek’s gaze to show he means business.

Derek has this constipated look on his face.  “Uh, thanks, cap.  I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

Jonny nods.  “So you’re good?”  Derek nods.  “Good.  Now, let’s practice some one-on-one rushes…”

\--

“I thought you were gonna talk to Decker, dude!” Kaner storms into his apartment, yelling.  (Jonny should have never given him a key.)

“I did!  He said he’s fine!”

“He’s not fine.  But whatever, you suck, what else is new.  _I_ , on the other hand, have information.”  Kaner pulls one of Jonny’s beers out of his fridge, opens it, and takes a swig.

“Information?”

Kaner nods, flinging himself onto the couch next to Jonny.  “Yep.  I talked to Caller.  Scott said that Derek’s all moody because of Lints.”

“Lints?  No way.”  Jonny is floored.  Stiles Stilinski, the Hawks’ backup goalie, the friendly guy with the real name so Polish-ly unpronounceable that even the most hardened NHL announcer has practically given up saying it right?  He’s got something to do with this?

“Yeah, man.  They all go way back, apparently, Decker, Lints, and Caller.  They all played midget out in Cali.  Caller said that Lints and Decker had this will-they, won’t-they thing goin’ on for like, years, and it all came to a head at World Juniors in ’06.  They totally hooked up after Poland got knocked out and the US lost the bronze medal game, and then they never spoke to each other again.  Lints ended up playing in the KHL, Decker got drafted by the Sharks, and it never worked out.”  Kaner shakes his head sadly and takes another drink.  “But now they’re on the same team and Caller says it’s like they’re fifteen again, with all the unresolved sexual tension.”

Jonny leans back against his couch, trying to take that all in.  “Wow.”

Kaner kicks his feet up on the coffee table and his body lists to the left until he’s resting against Jonny’s shoulder.  “Yeah.”

\--

Jonny knows what he needs to do.

For the good of his team, he has to recreate the 2006 World Junior Ice Hockey Championships.

(No pressure.)

\--

The question is, how?

World Juniors is an extremely specific set of conditions, not often repeated in the hockey world.

The Olympics were last season.  They’re all too old for World Juniors, and regular Worlds isn’t for months—it’s only December.

December.

The Winter Classic.

It’s… it’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

\--

Now that Jonny has the semblance of a plan, he needs to lay down the groundwork.  Groundwork is important.

The perfect opportunity comes a few days later when Greenberg, the Hawks’ starting goalie, trips on some stairs at a concert, drunk off his ass, and gets himself a “lower-body injury” and two weeks on IR.  He won’t be ready in time to play the Winter Classic, January 1st in Washington DC.  So, unless the guy they call up from the minors down in Rockford stands on his head and plays out of his goddamn mind, Lints will be the one to face the Washington Capitals in the Outdoor Game.

(Not that Jonny was rooting for Burger to get hurt, or anything.  Yeah, he’s weird, even by goalie standards—even by Ilya Bryzgalov standards—but he’s still Jonny’s goalie.  Jonny’s just making do with what the hockey gods are throwing his way, here.)

(He’s trying to do the hockey gods’ bidding, here—he knows they’re big on dramatic trans-continental separations followed by elaborate reunions.  Just look at Carter and Richards.  Jonny’s just being a good Canadian.)

So the day before their flight to DC, Jonny takes Decker and Caller aside before practice.  (Caller is actually Groundwork Collateral; Jonny’s already taken Decker aside alone once, any more than that and it’ll be suspicious.)

“Hey, guys,” Jonny says.  “Coach Q finalized the lineup; we’ll be dressing six defensemen.  Duncs and Seabs, you two, and Boyd and Layers.”

“Cool,” Scott says, nodding along.  Derek scowls.

“And I don’t have to tell you guys how important this game is.  Yeah, it’s two points, but it’s more than that.  It’s one of the only outdoor games of the season.  Fuck, we’ve had those ‘Road to the Winter Classic’ TV people filming us for how long?  And since Burger’s still on IR, it’s all but confirmed that Lints will start in goal, but—”

“Sti—Lints can do it,” Derek says suddenly.  His whole posture has changed, arms crossed defensively and brows furrowed.  “Lints is a great goalie.  He’s gonna be amazing.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow.  “I know, man.  I was just gonna say, the Caps have a couple of guys who crash the net.  Ennis, the twins… they drive hard to the net and don’t care who’s in the way.  Ennis totally took out the Hab’s goalie last playoffs, crashed into him, guy’s head hit the crossbar, out for the whole series.  I don’t want that happening to Lints, okay?”

Derek’s sporting some major murder eyes now, and Scott’s fast to tug him away, back towards the dressing room.  “Thanks, Cap!  We’ll keep that in mind!”

\--

The day of the Winter Classic dawns bitter-ass cold and snowy as hell.  The rink in the middle of Nationals Park looks amazing, though, and Jonny can’t wait to get out there and play some outdoor hockey.

But first, he stealthily moves a few locker room placards, moving Lints and Decker into neighboring stalls.  They look confused when they enter the locker room, but gamely enough sit next to each other and even seem to make stilted conversation.

Jonny is such a genius, you don’t even know.

\--

Outdoor games are just fun, you know?  Being outside, snow on the ice, breath visible in little puffs of steam; it brings up all the best memories of pond hockey when they were kids.

This game’s a good one—the teams are fairly evenly matched, but the Hawks are getting the lucky bounces, and Decker was right—Lints _is_ playing amazingly—and they end the first period up 2-0.

The second period is where things get interesting.

Saader draws a penalty and the Hawks get ready to go on the power play man advantage, but thirty seconds in Caller has a massive brain fart and basically gives the puck away at the blue line.  Ennis is there to pick it up and gets a shorthanded breakaway, zooming through the neutral zone and down towards Lints in the Hawk’s goal.  He doesn’t slow down at all, Caller and Decker giving chase at top speed, and the only reason disaster is averted is because Decker totally hooks Ennis, keeping him from reaching Lints.  They exchange heated words after the whistle, Caller and a ref holding Decker back.

Jonny’ll take that penalty, though, and the ensuing minute-and-change of 4-on-4 hockey.  Ennis looked brutal on the play—his trajectory would have taken him right to crashing into Lints.  Jonny taps his stick on the glass of the penalty box when he jumps on the ice to take the next faceoff, and Decker nods back.  His boys look out for their own (even when they don’t have backstories fraught with sexual tension.)

\--

The third period is much of the same—no goals, but lots of penalties.  Lints and the Hawks manage to hold off the onslaught, though, and then there’s only 2 minutes left on the clock and they’re still up 2-0.

The Capitals pull their goalie for the extra attacker, and it almost looks like it’ll work—the Hawks can’t get the puck out of their zone and Lints’s is bailing them out again and again and then—

One of the twins makes a diving play to keep the puck in, but the Caps forwards had already backed off to avoid offsides.  Aiden swipes his stick, sending the puck in deep, right to the tape of one Stiles Stilinski.  In seconds he’s settled the puck and lined up his shot—and then the puck is sailing down the entire length of the ice and into the back of the Capitals’ empty net.

The ref’s arm shoots into the air.  There’s 8 seconds still left on the clock but it doesn’t even matter.  Every Hawk jumps off the bench and floods the ice, surrounding Lints.  Helmet taps and face-washes and hugs, the biggest one from Decker, clinging tight.

The Hawks win the 2015 Winter Classic 3-0, Stiles Stilinski with the shutout, and with his very first goal.

\--

The after party is crazy.  They rent out the entire VIP section of some swanky Washington DC club and get drunk on whisky and champagne.  Lints even manages to find some weird, rare Polish spirit that he makes everyone take a shot of, in honor of him being named the game’s First Star.  Decker barely leaves his side, still looking dour but also very unwilling to be unmoved from his position.

Lints and Decker had been the last two out of the showers after the game, emerging together after everyone else was already dressed in their street clothes, but Jonny couldn’t tell if their matching flushes had been the product of the hot water and steam or something _else_.

They disappear after all of the guys have tried the Piołunówka, but Jonny’s not too concerned, instead heading over to the bar to get another beer.  Leaning against the bar, though, he sees them again.  From this angle, Jonny can see that Lints has Decker pushed up against the wall behind this pillar.

They’re totally making out.

Jonny smirks to himself, looks away, and picks up the beers that the bartender hands him.  He makes his way back over to Kaner.

Jonny smiles at Kaner, handing him his beer.  “I fixed it.”

Kaner rolls his eyes dramatically, but he does lean closer against Jonny.  “Uh huh.  Barely.  You and your fucking groundwork, man.”

“I did fix it!  Decker scored.”

“On Lints, heh, get it?” Kaner laughs, his eyes going all crinkly as he looks up at Jonny.  “I guess you deserve a point on the play, dude.  It was a pretty great assist.”

Jonny presses a kiss into Kaner’s mess of curls.  “It was.”

\--

_“Backhand, forehand, top shelf!  He shoots, he scores!  HAWKS WIN, HAWKS WIN!  Cue the Dagger, Derek Hale’s won it!  In OOOOVERtime!  His first goal of the season!  Assists go to Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane; time of the goal, 4.35 into OT.  My, what a beauty…”_


End file.
